


One Hundred and Eighty Horsepower (No Legs)

by Sar_Kalu



Series: Good Omens Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is Soft, Crowley loves the Bentley an unhealthy amount, Era: 1920's, Headcanon, M/M, pre-Good Omens canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19753963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Crowley loves the 1920's; loves the fashion, the hats, the men in dapper suits, the flappers, even the slappers - but most especially, the fast cars.





	One Hundred and Eighty Horsepower (No Legs)

Crowley had awoken just before the turn of the 20th century to a world changed by industry. Where horses and carts had once ruled the highways and byways of London’s surrounding areas, machines on thin wheels now chuffed down the narrow streets of the Big Smoke, their shrill horns piercing the once peaceable air. 

It was unlike anything the demon had _ever_ seen before. 

Electricity, Crowley would decide with no small measure of decisiveness, was a wonderful invention; and the demon particularly _adored_ the 1920′s when they arrived. There was something about that rush, that glamour, that step-in-step-out dancing delight of all the gorgeous and beautiful people all dressed up in fringed dresses of sequins and glass, and the handsome young men in their tilted hats and dapper sark suits that cut fine figures through the dance floor and backroom speakeasies and bars. In no other century so far, had Crowley ever felt so at home, so like himself, allowed to shine in ways that Hell and its 14th century mindset would never allow or encourage.

And sure, the devastation of the Great War had left an indelible mark upon all of London and Europe - Crowley had received a commendation for that, but he’d learnt his lesson from the Spanish Inquisition and had actively avoided the foggy fields of France and the frontlines of the Western Front. Had spent days, weeks, months, enticing the angel into drunken not-quite-debauchery at their favourite pubs and clubs, rubbing elbows with all the bright young things that had escaped the horror on the continent. 

The Great War had been horrendous, it was true; but the 1920′s and her roaring exuberance, celebration, and lust for life? Oh, oh, oh, but Crowley had _lived_ for those days like he had never lived for any day previously. The demon was all swinging hips and sly smiles and tilted dark trilby hats, dark sunglasses flashing white beneath the lightbulbs that sang with the crackle of electricity. 

The 1920′s suited the demon right down to his very bones.

For his part, Aziraphale had never seen Crowley smile so much as he had during those brief, short years before the Great Depression had sank her venomous teeth into the 20th century: such short, brief bursts of delight and joy though they were, those smiles nonetheless made Crowley’s face shine and his very soul - demonic though it was - sing a symphony unlike any Aziraphale had ever heard before. Beautiful didn’t come close to capturing it. 

Their shared moments in Saint James’ were treated to long moments of the demon expounding on his love for car racing - one of his little tricks to increase low key evil in the form of betting and rigged races - and of cars in general; and Aziraphale, who was quiet in these moments, would sit and listen and watch Crowley and absorb everything about him. The way his hands curved through the air, fingers flicking out as if to maximise the expressiveness of his gestures, the expressiveness of his sheer pleasure at this new century. The way his suits would move with the demon, settling and reshaping along the long clean lines of his arms, his legs, his torso. The enticing pink that peeked from under the starched collar of his fine linen button downs, the flush brought up from fervour and passion that made gold eyes gleam behind black sunglasses. 

In those moments, Crowley almost appeared a boy, untroubled by the world, unhampered by centuries of memories and weighted responsibility, a youth in the fresh blush of spring bloom, teeth shining behind red lips that reminded Aziraphale of summer roses, soft and sweet, hiding thorns but no less beautiful for the velvet-hiding danger. 

“You should come by the track sometime, angel,” Crowley was saying, his colour high and bright across his crisply angled cheekbones, hat set at a jaunty angle upon his slicked back hair, sunglasses flashing in the late summer sun. “There’s going to be a huge race on the seventh, they’re calling it the British Grand Prix; it’ll be held out at Brooklands,” Crowley added with clear delight, “it promises to be a smashing day all ‘round.”

Aziraphale made no reply but smile as Crowley continued even in the dearth of the angels clear enjoyment of the topic at hand. This time, with its fast cars and fast women and even faster men in their sleek suits and bundles of money that passed from hand to hand around the betting circuit at the track, suited Aziraphale poorly. Indeed, Aziraphale dearly missed the 17th century with its forward thinkers and its bright young men that hadn’t died too young in wars started by selfish aristocrats who were drunk on their own power, had missed the sheer love for exploration that humanity had fostered, pushing the limits of their own endurance in ways that the angel found to be quite admirable - although he would have greatly preferred that the acquisition of various territories be done peaceably if not at all. 

In the end, Crowley wrangled an agreement from the angel to attend the Prix with him on the 7th of August before they then parted ways once more. Aziraphale had been reluctant but Crowley was nothing if not persuasive; and in all honesty, Aziraphale didn’t wholly dislike car racing as a sport, if nothing else, Crowley’s sheer delight in it made for a beautiful show in its own right. For a creature of Hell, Crowley certainly shone with an exuberance and purity that wouldn’t have looked out of place Up Above - not that Aziraphale would _ever_ tell him so. 

Aziraphale hadn’t the guts to rip open old wounds like that; no matter how much he dearly ached to watch Crowley Rise and rejoin the Host. Though, in all honesty, Crowley would suit Heaven ill; bright and shining he might be, it was among humanity that he flourished best of all. Delighting in their clever little inventions, their smart adaptions to this world She had given them all. 

Walking along Piccadilly Circus, Aziraphale felt something akin to Crowley’s reverence for this era. The industry, the ebb and flow of humanity, it was utterly unlike anything from centuries previous. Cars milled with the last of the horses, slowly fading into inelegance as machines overtook them in terms of prominence. As one who’d never particularly loved horses or having to ride them long distances, Aziraphale couldn’t pretend that he was sorry for the change over.

It was as he wandered down city streets that he spotted _it_. The perfect surprise. The perfect gift. Crowley with his consistent upkeep with trends and fashions would adore it. Aziraphale paused, worrying at his lip. Should he though?

Being friends with a demon would be frowned upon enough if Gabriel or Michael ever caught wind of what was going on down here; but buying a demon a gift? Purely to make said demon smile at him?

Well, it wasn’t as though Crowley hadn’t sauntered through his shops front door, arms piled high with books he’d found on the sides of roads, in libraries about to be burned down by raiders and rioters, in peoples home that he then “liberated” them from - and it wasn’t as though Aziraphale had really repaid the favour, as it were.

Decisively, Aziraphale slipped into the shop with a sly smile, imagining Crowley’s expression when he found out, when he saw it the first time…

Except Crowley did very much dislike being made a fuss of. Hated Aziraphale meddling where he felt the angel ought not to meddle in. Very much disliked compliments or praises or songs sung in his honour. Gifts, surely, would cause as much a poor reaction as the previous and Aziraphale was left awkwardly on the pavement, wondering if he’d made the wrong choice…

No, no, no, it would be fine. He’d slip a note in Crowley’s pocket on the seventh, would hide the gift somewhere in Crowley’s flat, and everything would be fine. It would. It had to be.

Aziraphale nervously returned to his bookshop, Crowley’s gift a dead weight in his pocket, and awaited the seventh of August with trepidation and anticipation.

The 7th, when it dawned, was a seasonably warm, dry day with blue skies and a dull haze that settled like a blanket over the city. Crowley, who despite his love for cars hadn’t got on board with the still burgeoning taxi service, had organised for a gig to collect Aziraphale at half past nine before collecting Crowley at ten; from there, the journey out to Brooklands took less than an hour, by which time the avid fervour for the new British Grand Prix was in full swing. Carnival acts had set up outside the track limits and concession stands sold newspaper cones filled with steaming chips with vinegar and salted buttery popped corn brought fresh over from the Americas and pints of chilled beer and mugs of wine, the sides dripping with condensation. It was a festive air and Aziraphale took pleasure in the bright smiles and happy faces; times were leaner now than before. Unable to help himself, Aziraphale spread his blessings throughout the crowd, ignoring Crowley’s twisted, sneering expression when he realised what Aziraphale was doing.

It was fine; and it wasn’t like Crowley wasn’t spreading his own form of dissent and evil either.

The race ended on a high note with Henry Segrave, a British driver, scoring the fastest lap overall; even if two Frenchmen took the podium in first place - Crowley had shouted something derogatory, riling up the crowd. Not that it was hard to rile up anti-French sentiment in the UK; it was almost a national pastime at this point. 

It was as they were almost halfway back to London that Aziraphale remembered his present for Crowley and with a minor miracle - that was quickly passed off as a blessing for the gig driver, who’d spent the majority of the trip complaining about his missus and mother-in-law - had everything sneakily arranged. It had been hasty, but Aziraphale felt that it was self explanatory in the end; tradition even.

The gig pulled up at Crowley’s flat in Mayfair, an unfamiliar sleek black car parked out front and Aziraphale smirked as Crowley shot it a disdainful glance.

“Wanker spot to park, if you ask me,” Crowley muttered as he climbed from the gig, brows high in disapproval above his black sunglasses. 

Aziraphale shrugged lightly, pretending calm when his belly was a writhing knot of snakes, “well, humans and their little machines,” he drawled with admirable composure even as his heart threatened to break free of his chest and fly free of its own accord.

Crowley lifted his shoulder and waved Aziraphale off as the gig pulled away from the sidewalk, one hand creeping into his jacket pocket. Peering through the back window, Aziraphale watched with cheeky delight as Crowley pulled out a thin stretch of cream paper, confusion radiating from every line of his body. The slip of paper read, as per the human tradition: “ _the keys’ under the mat_ ”; not that Crowley _had_ a front door mat before today, but well, needs must.

With a sleek smile of satisfaction, the angel leant back in his seat, job done, and enjoyed the rest of the short ride back to Soho. There was a pleasure unique to giving and Aziraphale basked in it now.

Aziraphale had just settled in with one of young Ezra Pound’s new essays when the low rumbling purr of a motorcar pulled up out front. Relaxing back into his seat as best he could, Aziraphale turned his face to the front door and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Crowley burst through the front door in a wild rush of long limbs and flyaway hair, eyes wide behind his glasses as he spotted the angel and rushed him. Aziraphale froze and stiffened, expecting an attack - because: demon - only to turn even more rigid in shock as Crowley flung himself bodily upon the angel and… and… and…

_hugged him_

“You bought me a car,” Crowley rasped, shock radiating from his every atom and particle, “angel,” Crowley repeated, “you bought me a _car.”_

“I did, yes,” Aziraphale agreed, resting a hand upon Crowley’s bony back and marvelling at the tenderness that the demon was displaying. Not once in 6000 years had they hugged and Aziraphale found he quite enjoyed it. “I saw it,” Aziraphale explained, “and thought of you; you do so go on about the machines, my dear boy, it only made sense…”

Crowley knelt at Aziraphale’s feet and stared up at the angel, as if seeking benediction. “Thank you,” Crowley said, gratitude leaking from those two words in much the same way water leaks from a burst dam.

Aziraphale smiled, never knowing just how important the Bentley would later become, only glad to have made Crowley happy, and replied: “you’re welcome, Crowley.”

**Author's Note:**

> In response to lightningoceans prompt: „The key is under the mat.” 😘  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Chat with me on [tumblr](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/)?


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